Cursed
by Darcey OBrien
Summary: Willie's thoughts after his life changed forever. First published in October 1978 in the print fanzine "The World of Dark Shadows" # 19


Money. 

When you're a fellow who's been around and bounced around and bumped around, you learn quick that you need it. Need the green between your fingers. Need the coin in your palm.

The more, the better.

Yeah, I'd been around a lot then. Seems long ago now.

The thoughts and the past are so hazy. I can't quite grab 'em. I know lots of things went on before - things maybe the law or my mother or the long-dead conscience she tried to feed me when I was a kid –things all those maybe disapproved and frowned on. But I don't remember those things any more now. I just remember I did ' em for money.

That's how I got hooked up with Jason McGuire. I can't remember too well now. Some crazy scheme to make us both rich. Get the dough off the old broad in a blackmail deal and split, free and wealthy. It sounded good then. Now I wish I'd never heard of her. Elizabeth Collins Stoddard.

Collins. Wish I'd never heard the name, never knew the places and faces of that cursed family. For their curse spread to me.

God! To me! Hey, God-do you still know me? Hear me? I guess not. Too cursed even for you.

That Stoddard lady. It was seeing her sparklin' diamond pin that started it. I saw that and wanted it. Then I learned the Collinses go 'way back, back to the colonies time or maybe even more. In all that time, the same family, livin' high, money pourin' in….

I wanted all that too. Find it - take it – run with it – mine.

Money. It sure don't seem important now. I was mean and tough and cocky then. The rough guy, scared of nothin' and nobody. Thought I'd seen and done it all.

Ha! I ain't seen nothin' then. Didn't even imagine what cruelty and torture could be. I know now, 'cause I've suffered it myself.

Then – money was It. Cash – dough – bread – any form I could have it in. With this Stoddard dame and Jason's scheme, I could get it. Fine. Give it to me.

But then -

Things changed.

Then I heard about the Collins' history. Asked a few questions at the right times and to the right people. Shrugged with bored curiosity as I asked. Lotsa names, stories of glory days back all the years, family power and respect and all.

I saw old fading portraits to match the names, faces dimmed by time. Over all the years, the colors were weak and the shadows were deep and dirty, but all the jewels worn in those paintings still seemed to sparkle and dazzle. That old – that bright – that many – must've been worth a fortune then, in those old days, Who knew now?

Where were they?

Started poking around, just lazy-like. Legends and stories about a coffin from that time, chained and padlocked and hidden away forever. What else could be in there? Put the jewels where no one'd ever guess they'd be and then spread tales to prevent 'em being found.

But the truth was somewhere, the secret place with its sparkling treasure just waitin' to be found. By me, yeah?

Cemeteries never scared me. I didn't care about death.

I planned it all out so careful. Tell Jason to give me my share of the money so I could split. Packed up all my gear. Said the good-byes nobody was sorry to hear. They welcomed it, welcomed my leaving.

Good. No questions, no regrets, no suspicions. Just scram, buddy, an' don't come back.

Fine with me. They were gettin' too snoopy anyhow, wondering 'bout my sudden special interest in old family dust and shadows. Once I had them jewels, I'd be long gone. They'd never miss 'em.

And they sure as hell would never miss me.

So I went to the graveyard, into the dark cobwebs of the stone mausoleum. Cold creaking gate, deep darkness inside, solid dead slabs of marble coffins just as lifeless as the aged stiffs and skeletons inside them.

It took only a couple of seconds to find the one with the right name above it: Naomi Collins.

Thank you, lady. No deep dark secret about this slab. Looked just like the other two. Well, as long as what I wanted was inside, I didn't care how it looked.

When I was workin' in there, maybe I was warned. There was a sound… I'd also heard it before, when I was looking at one of the portraits, the one hanging right by the big front door.

That one hadn't been like the other old paintings. It had a life to it, a steady pulsing feel that I didn't understand.

In the mausoleum, I sensed that unreal life beating again. Was it my warning, a threat?

I don't know. I was too blinded by the gleam of diamond – emerald – sapphire – ruby – all the gleaming gems and gold ablaze as they slid through my fingers, beggin' to be mine.

I tried to pry open that Naomi Collin's coffin with my crowbar, but it was too old and too stuck. I figured to use a rope through one of the stone lions' heads ornaments on the wall. That was just as cold and dead as everything else in there.

But it hid something, something dead but not, still somehow alive, pulsing and beating and waiting waiting waiting ….

When I pulled on that ring in the lion's mouth, I heard this grinding noise and figured the cover of the coffin was moving. But it wasn't.

It was the wall, a whole square block of stone under the lion, rolling in and groaning like some lumbering old giant getting to his feet, his bones poppin' and grumblin' and growlin'.

It was pitch black behind that secret door in the wall. But I knew. I knew that was it. That was where the jewels were. A blast of cold, stale air burst out at me, smellin' like the grave, scattering bits of dust in my eyes. Black as ink in there, black as the devil. I know –

'cause I've seen him.

I took my flashlight and my tools and went in there, only thinking of them shining riches. Hungry for them. No thought of fear or danger.

But there was danger. I didn't know it. I wish I had.

I try to remember it all now, exactly what happened. It's so hard to get a grip on it; my brain doesn't want to.

It's like someone else did it, suffered it, survived it, was changed forever by it. Not me….

Down two steps. Feel the narrow walls and ceiling close in, pressing down and against. Shoes scuffing on the rough stone floor. flashlight playing around, striking immediately on the great low block of stone in the center, resting heavy on the pedestal. Reflecting the light beam, the coffin with wood sides still polished and shining in the first light that's maybe ever touched it here, in its secret last home place. Smooth, gleaming sides of wood, the flow of the grain cut by the bulks of chain across it, criss-crossing all over the casket, securing it, bolting it, anchoring and locking it' forever. Til now.

Hands grip the dusty chain, rattling it in frustration. It clatters loud in the low, small room, the heavy clank echoing off the walls.

Here lie the jewels, here they be.

The warning pulse and beat also echo against the walls.

No matter. Not listening, not hearing. Here are the diamonds and gold, ready, waiting. Here are the long-hidden family riches. Here also is Death, long in secret, waiting too.

Struggle with the chains, shake, tug. Grab for the crowbar to break their eternal protective hold. Flashlight falls, rolls away, the beam rotating and wobbling across the dust of the floor.

Wedge in the crowbar, steady it, lever it, all effort and strength against it.

Chain lifting above the lid of the coffin, tiny motes of dust finally and abruptly loosened from their resting place in the links, flaking silently away.

Chain rising up, straining, tightening, giving one more rattling effort as it pulls taut. Links tighten, age and dust working with the crowbar. A snap, an explosion of iron surrender, and the chains drop off, limp and dead and released forever.

Just a moment more to wedge in the crowbar and push against the casket lid. It's heavy but it gives. Pry it open, force it back. Let the air and dust settle at last on the contents deep inside the black shadows of the box, settle on the jewels and gold and riches….

A figure seems to rest there; a body that's not aged bone and scrap fragments of ancient cloth. A body fills the coffin, a sense fills the coffin, a lingering, waiting being fills the coffin, waiting for freedom from the chains and the cursed box.

A flash of movement, something bright and dark, tiny, like a single black jewel, reflects the dim light for an instant, then the movement carries the speck up and the hand it rests upon toward the throat, gripping and squeezing in a hold that is cold and all-encompassing and dead….

What-how-what-what-why-!

The clenching grip is solid and strong and fatal.

Seizing fingers tighten on the throat, yanking the head down even as the gasping air rattles in the windpipe, unable to go up or down. Eyes bulge – mouth frozen open, held and locked by the vise of the grip – terror etched forever in the muscles and lines and wrinkles of the face, in the staring black pupils of the distended eyes.

Don't – don't – God – Death – stop – don't –

The grasp holds as firmly as ever, yet another grab is felt. Fingers from another hand seize the wrist which seconds before so confidently held the crowbar. Fingers force the wrist forward, twisting it palm-up, pull it down into the depths of the box, the veins bursting and bulging against the skin as blood is prevented from flowing into the stiff, numb fingers.

The wrist is jerked forward and down in an instant.

There is the slightest brush of something against the plump vein, almost a caress of the tongue, the flicker of a lick, as sensuous and tender as a lover's gentle stroke.

The tongue, almost sighing in relief, now retreats. Prepared, the vein waits, the blood flow within still. Wait…

There is another, a sharp touch this time, a prick, followed by a second tiny sting. No pain, just puzzlement…. Then the pressure grows, the skin and vein wall simultaneously yield together, and blood spurts out.

And something spills in.

At first there is a fierce burning at the wrist, at the point of entry. Fiery coals have entered the body, sparks blazing in the arm. They leap and bound up the arm in an instant, pouring up the blood vessel, seeking the heart. They explode at the shoulder, scattering through the larger arteries to the chest, showering across to the other arm, streaming up the neck

To the brain.

No – keep away – don't – don't – don't – Death – no – no – no –

The flaming roars up to the base of the brain, dancing up through the head as it simultaneously rains down into the rest of the body. Everything is ablaze: every limb, muscle, nerve - all raging fire. A blood-red curtain drops over the vision, coloring out the darkness, even fading the fire, a thick crimson haze seeping into every inch of the body, every corner of the mind….

Must stop – must fight – no – must must must-

The red has penetrated all over, clinging to every atom. It is warm but not as hot as the fire which still pulses and tingles at the wrist in a regular rhythm of sucking. The red moves in, takes over, commands. It is the power and the will and the control now.

For moments, through the red, other lights flash, instants of color so fast they are gone before they fully register. Clear, blinding, brilliant in their brightness, as pure as any painter or artist could ever hope to make them. Dazzling against the red haze, they blaze and streak, lasting but a fraction of time, arc and vanish.

Behind the flashes of light comes a hollow sense, a feeling of something approaching yet hidden behind the red. Evil – cruel – tormenting and tormented – aching over the endless years for release and freedom and strength….

It slides in behind the crimson curtain and settles in the brain as well, now fully in power, with total control over the body.

The red begins to fade away, the heat draining off as the haze retreats. In some odd way, the heat was good against the sheer absolute terror…. But now it is gone, leaving behind a frigid crushing coldness that also penetrates every inch. The cold is a lost, hopeless, killing pain.

It comes in, crawling over and into each part of the body.

It reaches at last the final place of red heat: the wrist.

It seems to hesitate, waiting, then seeps into the veins there, releasing them from the heat and the sucking pressure.

Frozen in terror, lights and warmth and hope gone, the body is freed physically.

But the commanding – evil – is securely permanently, embedded in the mind.

The body has been rigid and stiff for these endless/instant ages of heat and cold, though only split seconds by the mortal clock. Now, the grip on the wrist is loosened and the throat is dismissed.

At first, there is no movement, no sign of life. Then, gradually, there is an awareness of a sound, far in the background, forgotten and unheard during the take-over. Now it finally, briefly registers, just as it ends, fading away into nothing.

It is the dying echo of a human scream, faintly ringing as it is swallowed by the stone walls.

The body collapses.

I know I went into that secret room intent on getting the jewels. That's all I thought of when I pried off the chains with the crowbar. Remembering now, I can recall the heady feeling of selfish greed, of eagerly wanting the money and gems. I knew they'd be there, inside the unchained lid of the casket. I knew I'd find 'em.

I found Him.

I can't say anything passed through my mind when he grabbed me. It was too fast, too sudden, too overpowering.

He just entered through my wrist and took over my head. Like a poison flowin' in the blood. I wasn't poison to him – I was a life and the Life he'd been denied for almost 200 years. I was poison to myself.

I kinda remember surprise at first. Yeah. I hardly had time to realize that wasn't no skeleton of dusty bones in there. Then I was shocked, stunned. Beyond belief. I didn't understand.

That hand grabbed me, squeezed my throat, yanked at my arm, pulled my hand down... I knew. I knew. I knew I was gonna die. Some ghost – some devil – come up out of a casket to kill me…..

I'll die – I don't wanta die – I wanta live – keep away – let me go – please God – don't take me – don't kill me – stop – stop – I beg- who?

I wanted – wanted to fight it, but it was burnin' up my insides. I couldn't see or feel or hear a thing. This hot fever was raging through me. It was reaching my head,

pushing and forcing its way in. My brain shrieked.

I've always been a scrapper, a fighter. I had to stop This, had to beat It. Whatever the hell it was.

I wanted to struggle, to fight it off, but nothin' would work or move, nothin' in my body would listen to my mind trying to resist, to be ME again….

It was His mind. In His control. Too late. Too late.

Cursed. Like him. Too cursed.

I bow to his every whim and wish now. He sleeps in his coffin in the daylight hours; at night, rises and stalks his prey like the black-death vulture he is. He takes from others, unknown to me, commands and drains and kills them.

But not me.

Me he needs, he uses. Me to protect him, to do for him, to ward off and chase away probing questions and odd looks and suspicious actions.

I hate him. But I serve him.

He knows so much, only of years ago when he was alive, people and ideas and standards long since turned to dead dust everywhere but in his memory. He had all those years to remember and think on them. His whole style and being are different to me. He doesn't fit into this time, but he is here now, thanks to me, and he knows he must fit or never survive. And he must survive, that he's determined, no matter who or what gets in his way or that he's got to use – or destroy.

Me included.

I feel so lonely, so afraid and lost. I am nothing, never will be nothing more than nothing.

I drown in the stinkin' alcohol bottle of helplessness and hatred – for him but more for me. I thrash in terrible nightmares of horror and helplessness. I cower and stammer to others and to him, all in fear. I 'm no good to anyone but him, least of all to myself.

Times I want to tell someone, warn 'em, expose the secret truth. Would anyone believe me? I don't think so. They'd laugh and taunt: He's in his boozed cups again, smashed….. He always was a lyin' sneak…. he never was no good and never will be.

All that cocky reputation I built before, when I didn't give a damn now comes back to haunt me, to laugh at me, to forget I ever existed before.

Do I even exist now?

Maybe someday I'll find the strength to kill myself. That's the only escape I can ever have. Can't do it by cuttin' my wrists or slittin' my throat. Huh – he'd KNOW and smell it and probably come lap it all up with his tongue like a dog.

Then he'd go for the cut I'd made with his teeth for more...

But I'll do it somehow, someday, finish me off.

If I can just get away from him, hide from his always-there power that knows where I am and what I'm doin' every second. If I only can…..

I hate him so. I want to kill him. But how can I kill something that already died once before? And he'd know if I tried. Hell, he'd know if I even think it, I bet.

He always knows. Everything.

And he punishes any wrong thought with battering blows of his cane and raging threats from his mouth and maniacal hatred in his flaming eyes.

If only I could truly kill him, some way.

Free myself.

Flee. Run. Free.

But I can't.

No jewels. No riches. No fancy livin' on top o' the world.

Not with my damned Curse.

I can't ever be free of that or of him. No way I can belong to myself ever again. I belong to him.

To Barnabas Collins.

Forever.


End file.
